M5A97LAR20 Extragalactic space, same time as Askillion**’s exit**

The battle had been brief and intense so far. The crew of the station was losing hope, with ninety percent of their fleet either disabled or destroyed. The Dark-fleet had only lost five vessels, despite their efforts to stop them. The Skrelson commander looked at his command crew. “We might have to activate the UMBHD (Ultra Massive Black Hole Device) to stop them”

The rest of the crew looked down, each of them saying a silent prayer, before the sensor officer looked up. “Sir! Sensors indicate a new incoming contact, it reads as friendly?” His tone full of surprise, and questions on what he saw.

The commander tilted his head. “Why is that a question?”

“Sir, it just appeared in the last few seconds and it's….it's deeper than the magenta band. It’s in purple, almost black…..” He tossed his data onto the main view screen, with the visual of a purple streak heading towards the wreckage field and the enemy’s battle formation.

The commander sputtered and shook his head, now visibly shaken. “What is that?”

No one could answer him before space suddenly bellowed a deep-throated roar, something of pure impossibility, according to science as they knew it. The purple mist of the space fold spewed forth before it slowly, almost menacingly, dissipated, leaving seven plecks of unknown warship to plow through the void. The dark grey and black coloring along its imposing, hard-angled hull causing the unknown writing that was lit on its prow to stand out.

Some of the vessel’s armored plates split open to reveal bay doors that disgorged hundreds of small craft, overloading sensors and causing their alarms to scream even louder. The entire command crew stared in shock as the new vessel drifted from its exit point into the leading edges of the enemy formation.

“Commander that vessel, it’s…I do not have words for the readings I am getting. Kinetic weapons, reading from ridiculously massive to so small that they might be meant for point defense.” A brief silence followed, then the sensor officer continued, “If I am reading this right and even the computer is unsure, but it looks like X-ray lasers, whatever those are…and some kind of plasma based weaponry. Readings show a complement of ten thousand beings on board the ship, give or take. Systems are having issues identifying the material being used as armor.”

The holo display showing the battlefield was now filled with active blue blips, but they were few against the sea of red. The smaller blips indicating fighters were terrifyingly fast, pulling turns registering at ten gravities or higher as they maneuvered.

“That’s impossible! Any ship should be shearing apart at that much gravity!” There were looks of shock as the Nervanian tactical officer spoke for the first time in anyone’s recent memory, usually they just flashed lights to talk.

Then, as the fight started in earnest, with the Dark-fleet starting to fire on the unknown ships with their usual reckless abandon. Deuterium fluoride lasers flashed through the vacuum, only to be absorbed by the unknown vessel’s and the fighters’ armor.

Then systems on the fortress bleeped notifications of channel jamming on an impossibly wide range.

“Commander, everything but friendly com lines are down and down hard, even fold space channels.” There was another moment of silence before their speakers suddenly squealed to life when the com officer played a sampling of the signal that was filling those channels. “Sir, it seems to be some kind of…music? I think…..”

At the same time, ten wings of fighters and interceptors, along with six squadrons of bombers, numbering hundreds of individual craft, kicked off their preplanned jamming sequences by flooding every non-friendly frequency, both in real space and fold. Human music blasted every communication channel to hash with music ranging from rock and death metal, to country and soul, to anime and movie themes. In the specific case of a wing of interceptors SFI-697 Heart Breakers, they introduced the galaxy-at-large to KISS by blaring “I was Made for Loving You”.

The first stroke in response was from the small ships released from Askillion. One small bomber group briefly flashed into the upper level of fold space for a moment. On board the bombers, six fold navigators let screams of rage and frustration rip loose from their lips, while they frantically worked their haptic controls to guide the vessels safely in fold space, only to exit behind the enemy formation.

The bombers quickly snapped, rolled, and released their munitions on the first target available. Six bombers targeted six battlecruisers as missiles ripple fired from bays, several scores worth slamming into shields, then into the hulls themselves, before a single bomb slid from each of the open bomber bays. Carried by inertia and some unknown mechanism, the bombs slid silent and majestic from the bays, slamming into the burning ships to deliver an assured quick death blow.

Across the zone, fighters and interceptors bob and weave nimbly, homing in on targets as relentlessly as the weapons packages they expended before peeling away to zip back to the mothership and reload. The other bomber groups, though limited to real space, performed beyond expectations, except in the maneuvering department. In several cases, their space frame’s tolerances were exceeded, causing internal damage. For some of the smaller craft launched by the Askillion, this would mean a lot of repair time and work for deck crews..

Finally the massive new vessel herself responded, and as if hell opened up it's gates the vessel's weapons spoke in one terrifying voice. Glittering streamers reached out all around the vessel, seeming to pause only whenever friendly ships were in the way. Massive cannons launched terrifyingly large projectiles that left whorls in the debris from the previous battle, shattering shoals of cruisers and even battleships with their passing.

Amid carnage that the hostile fleet was not used to having visited upon it as the victim in this one-sided of a fight, two objects launched from the newest scion of death in their midst, though the objects did not fire a single weapon and quickly got lost among the debris and detritus, quickly forgotten by the besieged hostiles.

Inside those two objects sixty-six men and women were waiting for their computer guided flight to terminate. All but four on each vessel double checked their weapons and armor. The remaining four sat quietly, lightly armed, with just a pistol and a large knife upon their belt, for their purpose was not to fight physically but to engage in the classic psychological warfare of their national descent.

The main engines on the craft cut as RCS took over guidance and a shared commlink showed a target while one man who was wearing a major's rank tab in dulled colors said “Ok lads n lassies, that wee bitty boat be our target. Mind you, it seems to be the enemy flagship but is but only a mile long maybe a skosh more. Myself and me brother have allotted thirty minutes for this wee little picnic we are going to have over there. Isn't that right, Evans?”

From the other boarding vessel came a reply. “Bet yer arse, Larry. Operation is to capture or get that vessel to the point of inoperability. That wee li’l patrol boat over there shouldn't be much of an issue at all. Is that clear, boys n girls?”

The troopers, stoic for most of the briefing, all raised their right hands in unison before thumping their chests as one. Their left hands upon sword, hilts, or pistol grips as they bellowed out, “For the Highlands Regiment and the honor of the Black-watch!”

A timer appeared on heads up displays, counting down rapidly as retro-rockets began to fire microbursts. The Rams arced out to come in on either side of the enemy vessel, before none-too-gently smashing into its thickly armored hull and munching in three layers before coming to a stop.

At the same time, all across the system, the jamming suddenly dropped as a wide frequency broadcast went live. For humanity, it was their first glimpse of this unexpected foe, but for the crews that had been fighting them for generations, it was a sight all too common. Multiple smaller views popped up from helmet cameras alongside at communication from the hostile flagship, though its commander appeared to be in shocked silence as its cervine face formed into a snarl, showing a mouth full of sharp teeth.

Just as the creature was about to speak, a faint wailing sound began that only humans would truly recognize as a quartet of bagpipes, along with their accompanying drummers, began to play “Scotland the Brave”. In response, views of two different entry points on the alien flagship appeared as twenty-nine black and grey clad troopers poured from each hole, archaic blades in hand as they split up and spread into the halls while they mowed through any resistance. The Council forces watched as these faceless bipedal beings cut a swath through the enemy ship faster than one could possibly comprehend.

The soldiers’ blades cleaved foes, bulkheads, and blast doors alike. The wails and beats changed their pace and rhythm, then changed again, and finally the enemy flag vessel’s transmission suddenly cut out, though the individual views from each combatant that had boarded revealed carnage and destruction in their wake.

A final view from two different angles, both spattered with blue blooded droplets, appeared and focused, showed doors being shattered, and a terrified cervine bridge crew was all huddled in one mass in the center of the room. Their captain was the only one standing and held up a universal flag of surrender: white with a red symbol. Then a rough voice with a deep burr in it started to speak, with the translators finally kicking in so the council forces could understand what was being said. “Admiral, mission complete, twenty-two minutes on the clock. Requesting retrieval of prisoners and captured vessel at your convenience.”

Shaking themselves from their shock after an unknown amount of time, the Council command crew got back to work. The signal officer relayed, “Commander, more signals on the magenta band. There is another fleet inbound, ETA five hours.” He worked his controls before continuing, “Unknown friendlies have launched shuttles, I believe they are doing search-and-rescue. Known friendly forces are six hours out.”

The commander shook himself again, feeling deeply cold as he looked at the data. “Try and contact the unknowns. Tell them to get out of here, that the enemy second wave is more than even their space magic can handle…..” Signals started going out, reaching towards the hulking vessel that sat amidst the debris field that had once been their mutual enemy mere hours ago.

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